The Empty House
by Melinda J. Carter
Summary: Continued from The Reichenbach Fall. Spoilers. After a mental breakdown and years of waiting, John is finally reconciled with Sherlock's fate. But Sherlock isn't satisfied, and everything goes wrong.
1. A Dead Adair

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything except for original ideas in the plot. Everything else belongs to BBC and whoever owns A.C. Doyle's copyright now. Please don't sue me.**

**Chapter 1: A Dead Adair**  
John couldn't sleep.  
Not since Bart's.  
And the Fall.  
Or maybe the funeral, on that horribly, properly, dreary and wet day.  
He sighed and got out of the hotel bed. He still couldn't sleep in the flat. But then again, he couldn't sleep anywhere. All the evidence of Sherlock in 221b made him too sad. The skull, the lab equipment, the who-knows-what in the bathtub. The spray paint smiley face on the wall. John would sit in his chair by the fireplace, thinking, remembering, until a noise aroused him.

Then he would wander around London, avoiding the places they had been together. His limp was back, as was his cane.

People would see him, a sad man, lost in his memories. He looked older now, like he had aged 10 years in the past five weeks.

"John, you need to sleep."  
He couldn't. He would see the fall, over and over. His dreams obliterated by nightmares, one nightmare. He would see Sherlock, broken, limp, and bloody on the sidewalk.  
"John, please, eat something."  
Sherlock was right, hunger did make him think better. He started to see things that Sherlock had.

Sherlock was always right, except for that morning, when he said he wasn't.

* * *

"You haven't been writing in your blog, John." His therapist leaned forward with concern.  
"No, I haven't. Nothings happened to me of interest. I go to my hotel room, pretend to sleep, get up, wander around, do my shift at the surgery, wander some more, go back to the hotel."  
He fiddled with his cane.  
"You still miss him, don't you?"  
"Can we not talk about that, please."  
She stared him in the eye.  
"John, you are depressed and deteriorating. I know it. You know it. You won't eat, won't sleep, and your limp is back. You try to have a semblance of normality, but obviously you are not. I should have you institutionalized."  
John stared out the window for a moment. The sun, so bright today, was mocking him in his grief. He turned back to look at her.  
"But you won't."  
"Not yet. Go find something... anything...to get you back to almost normal. You have a week."  
He straightened himself in the chair. "I'll go to Lestrade, He'll give me something to do."

* * *

"John Watson! I didn't expect to see you again." DI Lestrade looked about as bad, or possibly worse than John. "It's good you're here though, we need a second opinion." They were outside of a taped off crime scene, and people were wearing blue suits and gloves, like on that first night.  
"Who said anything about me helping with anything?" John tried his best to look innocent, but with his current state, it wasn't very good.  
"You're here. That's as much proof I need. You are bored." Lestrade started to smile as he referenced Sherlock, but then remembered what happened, and stopped midway. It came out as a grimace.  
John nodded, but looked a little sadder. "Okay, fine, you got me. What's going on?" he had nothing to lose, and nothing to gain. Or so he thought.  
"Ron Adair. Dead. He was found this morning by the housekeeper. Shot through the head," the DI held out the file. John accepted. "We know how it happened, he was shot through the window, and the door was locked from the inside. We just don't have a motive, since it was obviously murder."  
John thumbed through the file, "so you want me to have another look, just like old times." Both men's faces had an identical grimace at that sentence.  
"Yeah. Can you do it in five minutes? The ambulance is coming in soon."  
"That'll work."

_A/N I will post the next chapter next week_

_Please R/R_


	2. Empty

**DI Sclaimer knows that this is a chapter of my story, invented by me, and loosely based off of ACD's short story, The Adventure of the Empty House. Sherlock finds her as annoying as the other DIs. Please don't sue me.  
**

**Chapter 2: Empty**  
The first thing that John noticed in the flat was the copious amount of playing cards. There was a deck of cards about every decimeter.  
"He played cards a lot, poker, we already know that."  
John was slightly more annoyed than usual to see Anderson standing in the doorway. "Why'd they let you in, anyways?"  
John did not dignify that with an answer.  
"Do you know how much he won?" John turned to Anderson, completely ignoring the latter's previous question.  
"On a good day, about £100. Wasn't his primary source of income though, his dad just died, an earl of something, so he got an inheritance."  
"Hmn. No motive found yet, Lestrade said. Any suspects?" John poked around the body, ignoring the empty, marbled gaze it had.  
"Donovan's doing that, checking out the clubs that he frequented, any partners."  
"That explains a lot." _Choose the pretty officer, to do the dirty work, in a place with potentially drunk men. _Brilliant, _Lestrade._  
"What?"  
Anderson was cut off by the stretcher rolling in. John felt a pang of loss in his chest, and ran out of the room.  
"Where you going? We're not done yet."

John fled. running down the stairs, he pushed brusquely past officer after officer. Lestrade caught his elbow. "John, wait! We still need you!" He was shaken off and nearly received a bloody nose from John's flailings.  
John pushed under the yellow tape, and ran.  
He didn't look back.

The next thing John knew was a boarded up house. He pushed through the boards, bloodying his hands and found a soft corner to curl up in.  
"John." The soft voice emanated from the opposite corner.  
"Go away." John mumbles, barely registering the dark smudge that has filled his vision now. he focused his eyes, and the smudge turned out to be a man. A very familiar man. "Go away, hallucination."  
"No, John, I won't go just yet," the voice is soft, almost as if it is reprimanding a very small child. "I want to talk to you."  
"Uh-huh, and then I'll kill myself, I suppose."  
The figure smiled. "Nothing like that. I just want to talk, and seeing as I'm a hallucination, I probably don't have very long."  
John lifted his head. "I miss you. I'm bored. I miss your experiments, and your violin, and your deductions, and your...you're...dead."  
The last word floated in the air for a second, and then fell on the floor lightly, but shattered into a million razor-sharp pieces.  
"I miss you, too."

* * *

A/N: yes, I know, my chapters are very short. I am sorry. Forgive me.

PLEASE R/R!


	3. The Article

**Disclaimer: however much I want to, I do not own anything, except for the precise plot and dialogue past the prologue. Please don't sue me.**

_**Fake Genius' Friend in Mad House **_  
_by Kitty Riley_

Apparently the reach of Sherlock Holmes has extended even past his death. John Watson was found yesterday in an abandoned house past London city limits after fleeing from a crime scene 36 hours before. Mr. Watson was not involved in the crime, but according to an anonymous source from Scotland Yard he fled after seeing things that reminded him of Holmes's suicide. He was found malnourished and dehydrated, and authorities say was muttering to himself, and not responding to any stimulus. He was transported to St. Barts hospital, but after a few hours of observation the staff determined that he needed psychological care.  
He was admitted to the Priory Hospital late last night. The resident psychiatrist, Dr. Daniel Vanderharrt has reported that little progress has occurred, and that Mr. Watson has been repeating _"One more miracle for me Sherlock._"

It is currently unknown whether or not he will recover.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Yes, know, excessively short, but I like it.**

**Please R/R  
**

**Anyone who reviews will receive a virtual cumberhug**


	4. The Time How It Flies

**Disclaimer: I own this chapter. nothing else. I do not own the characters (well, most of them anyways) I do not own the ideas behind the story, or the faces that you are imagining in your head. These belong to the Moffinator, Godtiss, The Great Sir Doyle, (who I cannot BEGIN to imitate properly) Mr. Cucumberpatch, and your average hobbit from the shire. Please don't sue me. **

**Chapter 4: The Time How it Flies.**  
John was dead.  
Or at least it felt that way.  
And the world hadn't stopped spinning. No apocalypse had happened. The sun hadn't gone out.  
But it had, if only to John.  
Sherlock was his sun, his gravity, his light, his everything. But now he was gone.

John had been released from Priory hospital after 6 months of therapy. He had learnt to please them, and the doctors determined that he was well functioning enough to leave. John never told them about the memories of his experience in the old house.

Mrs. Hudson had removed all traces of Him from the flat, except for the skull, most of the books, and His chair by the fireplace.

At seven months John goes back to his job at the surgery. He does his job swiftly and precisely. He has no sympathy for those who still have people they love with them.

At one year he returns to His grave for the first time since the funeral. He brought a bouquet of flowers that are exactly the same color as His scarf was. There was a laminated piece of paper sitting on the stone. It read 'I Believe In Sherlock Holmes,' and had a black and white photo of Him above. Below it was written 'John, if you're reading this, know that we believe in him too. Don't give up the fight!' there was a scrawled signature below it, but John couldn't decipher it before his eyes completely filled with tears, and he broke down crying, sobbing, like he should have, so many months ago.

At 13 months he meets a woman in the grocery. She helps him with the chip-and-PIN machine, which he still uses, no matter how frustrating. They get to talking, and he asks her out for some coffee. Her name is Mary.

At 15 months they are dating in earnest. John is outwardly happy.

At 17 months John pops the question.

At 18 months they are married, and John moves out of 221b, but keeps on renting it. Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind, and lowers the price. The only thing remaining is His armchair.

At 20 months Mary is pregnant.

At 29 months their raven haired boy is born. John insists on naming him Sherlock, and Mary never protests. He doesn't feel so dead anymore, not with his new center.

At 33 months John has almost completely forgotten about Him, trapped as he was in the whirlwind of a new child, until an email from Mycroft comes, for the first time since Then, asking to see the boy.

* * *

A week later, John slides into the sleek black car that parks itself outside of their flat, delicately cradling the sleeping infant Sherlock in his arms. The car takes them to a field where Mycroft is waiting.  
"He's beautiful," Mycroft says as soon as he can see the baby's face. He then holds out an envelope. "A small child support check. I know how hard it is to raise a child in these days. May I hold him?" John trades with Mycroft and opens the envelope. The figure stuns him, because it's £250,000.  
"What did you name him?" John knows that Mycroft already knows, but wants to hear him say it.  
"Sherlock James Watson."  
"I think he might have been pleased."  
"I think he would have been disgusted."  
Mycroft gives one small huff of laughter. "I'm glad his name lives on."  
"Me too."

* * *

**A/N: Okay pplz, if you have followed thus far then you know that I have not updated in FOREVER. This is because I have had school, and cannot stick to deadlines to save my life.**

**Review if you wish to.  
**

**Thank you. **


	5. Cameos

**Disclaimer: Yes, this is my story, and no, I do not claim ownership for the world and characters in which this story is set. Please don't sue me.**

**Chapter 5: Cameos**  
It is 11 o'clock at night on 2 years, 11 months, 3 weeks and 6 days. John sat by the fire after having put little Sherlock to bed. His mobile beeped. He glanced down at the screen. A text from a blocked sender.

"_Suspend judgement. The full story is always more complex than its parts. -S I"_

John slumped further against the couch. His number had gotten out to the public. Again. People always had to bother him.  
The graffiti wasn't so bad, but these things, so much like He would have said, hit a sore spot.  
He deleted the text, his fingers fumbling on the small keys.  
John knelt by the fireplace, picking up the small brown bear that had been forgotten earlier that evening.

_Round and round the garden like a teddy bear..._

He got up and ascended the three steps to the kitchen. A flash of something from the window above the sink caught his eye. He limped to and looked over the windowsill. Nothing but bushes and a few wilted flowers.

_Nothing. Just old paranoia._

He went upstairs, and heard the soft snore of his wife from their bedroom at the end of the hall. Some soft rustling came from the baby's room to his left. He passed the room as silently as he could, not wanting to have to get a bottle this late.

_Clunk._

John froze, stopped in his tracks by the unexpected sound. He remained still for several more seconds, listening intently, and then continued.

He fell asleep almost immediately after hitting the pillow.

* * *

Sherlock froze, waiting for John to move on into his bedroom.  
He approached the crib, not making a sound. He hadn't been making a lot of sound these days, sneaking up on people, keeping them under surveillance. Slowly untangling the spider's web, strand by strand. And now that the spider was dead, they would be just left hanging, and nobody to repair it. Hopefully.

He knew where the last few people were, and he needed to prepare John. Make him begin doubting the suicide.

Starting with this.

He leant over the crib, slightly craning his neck, gently pulling the covers back, exposing the face of the sleeping babe. The curly locks so prominent at birth had already developed into an unruly mess. Sherlock the younger barely stirred as the elder slipped a small, black magnifying glass into his hand.

More silent steps down the hall and a Cluedo card, with a knife slit in it, wedged between the upper moulding and the wall. a travel bottle of his favorite shampoo in a bathroom drawer. a beaker, with a small amount of sulphur, mint, and tar caked to the base in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

Sherlock stole back to the upstairs, and peeked in on his sleeping friend and his wife.  
"I'm sorry," he whispered, slightly hoarse. John twitched as if in acknowledgement.

Sherlock's hold on his infant counterpart was awkward, but the baby didn't seem to mind and continued sleeping.  
"I really hope that you remember this, because I may not be here to tell you later. Your dad is a very good man. He can protect you. I have a feeling that certain people will not leave him alone, and I _will_ do everything in my power to stop them. There are more evils in this world, and you will have to be very brave.  
"Time is running out and I will have to go risk my life. I'm starting to become like an angel. Tell your dad that, an angel is watching over him."  
He stood there, watching the blissful face. He was dreaming, of something nice.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing with my son?!"  
John cocked his Browning L9A1. firmly standing just inside the door. Sherlock had no idea how John had snuck up on him, what with his returned limp, but these were near the same conditions as he had been cured before.  
Sherlock panicked internally, desperately thinking of ways to get out of this without revealing himself. He saw none.

"John Hamish Watson, understand that I am extremely sorry for what I am about to do.  
"Vatican Cameos!"

Nothing would happen, but John still hit the floor on instinct. Sherlock leapt up and climbed out the window, and the rattling woke the baby up. He dropped the magnifying glass onto the carpet, where it broke into three pieces. Sherlock jumped out of the window and rolled, to the tune of a bawling baby.

John leant out the window and yelled at the running figure, "Sherlock!"  
Not knowing that he was yelling at both of them.  
He turned away and pounded the door frame in frustration. Mary had woken up at the cries of her son, and came running down the hallway.

"John? What happened? Are you okay?" She turned into the room and gasped. John was now sitting against the wall, head in hands.

"He's gone. 'Locky is gone. Someone took him"

* * *

PS: next Tuesday (Jan 29, 2013) is the canon anniversary for Sherlock and John's meeting, according to John's blog.


	6. So, It Begins

**Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters, and some of the plot. Please don't sue me.**

**Chapter 6: So, It Begins**

The baby wouldn't stop crying.

Sherlock had done everything he could to quiet it. He tried reasoning with it, playing a soft song on his violin, rocking it in a near-gentle fashion.

Nothing worked. Sherlock got fed up, and was about to feed the baby a sedative when Molly walked in.

She was laden down with plastic shopping bags and promptly dropped them as she saw what was happening in her living room.

"What are you doing?"

"It won't stop crying."

Molly Hooper had been in on it the entire time. Sherlock had used her flat as a home base of sorts while he was circling the globe, destroying Moriarty's affiliates.

He needed her. He was so out of sorts that he really couldn't take care of himself. Sherlock had returned from India two months ago emaciated and dehydrated. He hadn't eaten at all, really, only when he was too weak to continue, and even then only a small portion. Molly nursed him back to health, borrowing IV bags from the hospital occasionally, and forcing him to eat, at least once every two days.

"Why won't it stop crying"

Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was not a caregiver for infants. However, Molly was only slightly surprised when she saw how young it was. Sherlock had brought home stranger things.

"Let me hold, erm, him or her?" Molly asked tentatively.

"Male."

"Let me hold him then,"Sherlock held out the baby in disgust and Molly took him. Immediately He stopped crying and gazed up at Molly with wide eyes. The thought finally occurred to her as he saw how familiar the baby looked. "Sherlock? Whose baby is this?"

* * *

John fumbled again with the tiny keys of his phone, finding a disused number that called Scotland Yard, one office in particular.

Ring...ring...Ring...ring...

"Detective Inspector Lestrade,"

"Hello, Greg."

"John, Something's wrong, isn't it. You don't call for social reasons. Another one of your sightings?"

"No. My son's been kidnapped."

John could hear him spew his coffee on the other end of the line.

"I'll be over as soon as I can," the line clicked and he was gone.

John turned around to face his wife. "Greg's on his way, don't worry. Locky will be fine."

"Are you sure, John?" Mary said, still crying faintly. John sat down next to her, extending his arm around her shoulders.

"I'm positive."

* * *

DI Lestrade almost ran out of his office. With long strides he crossed the floor, calling out as he went, "Donovan! Grab Forensics and come with me!"

He burst through the double doors at the base of the garage stairs, toward his cruiser. Two things happened simultaneously. His mobile vibrated in his pocket, signalling a text had arrived, and a sleek black luxury car glided nearly silently in front of him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and the text read;

" Get in the car, Detective Inspector. You don't want me to get persuasive...-MH"

Lestrade hesitated for a second, giving his team a chance to catch up. Confusion aside, He opened the door and started to get in.

"Greg, what's going on?" Sergeant Donovan was standing there, hands splayed, waiting for an explanation. He waved her off, calling over the rapidly closing door," Just go to John's house. I'll meet you there in a bit."

The door shut, the car shifted into gear, and it sped off, taking Lestrade to places unknown.

* * *

A/N: sorry about that, took a while..._hopefully_ the next update will be...sooner...maybe...

Anyways, things will start to get exciting, so stay tuned in!

Constructive criticism is better than chocolate!


	7. Explanations, Finally

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I never will. Please don't sue me.**

**Chapter 7: Explanations, Finally**

The car stopped in a warehouse just outside London city limits. Lestrade got out and stretched, taking in the scenery. It wasn't much. The dripping of unfixed leaks made the entire place have a grim attitude. Two plastic chairs were set up facing each other about ten yards away. The car backed away and Lestrade made his way toward them. He sat in the closer of the two and waited. the drip, drip, drip was nearly hypnotic and he fell into a sort of half sleep. He hadn't gotten much sleep in the past few days.

"Comfortable?"

Lestrade was jolted to a very alert state, very quickly, at the unexpected voice behind him. Then, as the mystery speaker came around to reveal himself, he jumped up and tripped over his own chair whilst backing up in surprise. The man he had thought dead, fallen off a building, was standing there right in the flesh. There was a long silence and both men scrutinized each other.

Sherlock was skinnier and paler than before, if that was even possible, and his hair was quite a bit longer. He was wearing one of his usual suits, but his old greatcoat was replaced by a very deep black one.

Sherlock saw that Lestrade was over tired and losing sleep at night. Some caked pureed vegetable was visible on the lower part of his sleeve. A new baby in the house, then. His coat was put on in a rush, while running out the door. His two-day stubble was due to a long shift, and it was a hard case for him. He had had three- no four cups of coffee since getting to the office. He also had a strange, concerned look to his face that Sherlock couldn't place.

He broke the silence with a low, "Hello, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade still didn't say anything.

"I'm not dead."

Lestrade blinked, swallowed and then replied, "Obviously…but…how?"

"How did I jump off of a four storey building, with witnesses, and still survive? How am I not a rotting corpse six feet under in that graveyard?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock put on a smug half-grin. "I can't tell you. But sit down, the rest of this might interest you."

The still-awestruck Lestrade righted his chair and complied. Sherlock did the same.

"I think you'll have noticed that one Richard Brook has disappeared from the public eye since my…stunt. I am imploring you to believe me. He was never real. I was lying to John. I was lying to everyone up on that rooftop. It was Moriarty. It always was. He was behind it every step of the way. From the break-ins to kidnapping those kids. It was all him. I did absolutely nothing but testify and get pulled into the lies.

"Moriarty was up there on the roof with me, until a few minutes before I jumped. He shot himself in the mouth. I imagine that some of his associates disposed of him later. We talked, and then he threatened me. Want to know how? He said that he would kill three people. Three bullets. In you, John, and Mrs. Hudson. There was a gunman in your office that day. Sergeant Harold Belkin. I found him about a year ago on a wharf in India. He had fled there, he said according to orders from someone named Colonel Sebastian Moran. I have managed to destroy all parts of Moriarty's web except for this one man. He eludes me. I have, however, tracked him to London. He is here somewhere. I don't know why, yet.

"Three years ago you were convinced by someone that I was a fake. Who was it? Anderson, perhaps?"

"We've fired Anderson. He was caught in a smuggling chain."

"Good. He was on Moriarty's payroll. He was paid to do that, and did quite a good job of it too. He's dead now."

"Ah," Lestrade replied and looked uncomfortable for a moment. "Where's Mycroft? He texted me to come here." He still looked embarrassed and almost eager.

"That was me," Sherlock said. "When would my brother ever text when he could call? Surely you should know that by now. Mycroft does not know I am alive yet."

"I need to go then. I have to get to John's. His son has been kidnapped." Lestrade started to rise but then stopped when he saw the grimace on Sherlock's face.

"What?" He asked.

"I know only all too well about that case. While you're there I need you to pick up my coat and a few other things." Sherlock changed the subject abruptly but Lestrade was not fazed.

"How do you know about that? We haven't released any details yet. We don't have any details! Did you find out from someone in the office?"

"I know because I did it. I was in John's house last night and he startled me. I panicked. Sherlock junior is safe now. I will tell you where he is, but first you have to promise me something.

"Why should I do that?! You've just confessed to kidnapping, breaking and entering and a bunch of murders."

"Because you have no choice," Sherlock said in his most menacing, oily tones. "If anyone but us find out that I am alive too soon we will all be in grave danger. Especially you and John. Moran will not hesitate to kill both of you. I just need one more day and then I can reveal myself to the world." He suddenly got very very furious, "See sense, Lestrade! I am not a fake! Believe in me! I am the only one who can get us out of this alive and I only have the best intentions. I want to rid the world of this killer.

"I found out that he was in the same regiment as John. He received a dishonorable discharge not a fortnight before John arrived. Want to know how? First he put his patrol partner directly in the sights of an afghani sniper, just because he took a long time in the shower. Then he tortured and killed an innocent bystander and pushed it off, saying that he was a spy. And there's the numerous cold blooded murders of women and children who were very distant relatives of known terrorists. I need to get rid of him. Moran is a loose cannon and I assure you that if there was ever a time I was more serious then it would be now. John would likely not be alive today if Moran had not been discharged.

"The only thing that I have faked is my death, I swear. Everything else was lies planted to ruin me."

"All right," Lestrade relented. "I promise I will not tell anyone for twenty-four hours. No longer. This is only because I trust you- sort of. Dammit Sherlock, why did you do that? I have watched John get worse and worse. You may think you're protecting him now, but him thinking you're dead is eating away at him from the inside. I heard him on he phone this morning Sherlock. He was nearly incoherent. He could barely get the words out to tell me he was so shaken up. And he has thought he has seen you before. He was institutionalized a few weeks after we thought you died. He was rambling on about how you were there, but you were dead. He was in there for six months. You don't know what it does to a guy."

"I do," Sherlock said.

"Oh, right," Lestrade had forgotten that Sherlock had been in one for more than a year, to get off drugs. They had met not soon after.

"What do you need me to do?"

As Sherlock detailed the items that he needed Lestrade realized how much he had missed him. Even though Sherlock was a pain, there had more cold cases in the last three years than there had been when he was around, and some of them Lestrade knew that Sherlock would have been able to solve in a minute.

It was only pressure that had pushed him to arrest Sherlock. The Chief Superintendent's threats, the insistence of Donovan and Anderson, and his own fears. Nothing else. There had been a mound of red tape afterward, and he had been accused by Anderson that he was an accomplice in Sherlock and John's escape, by telling all the officers to get down.

"...And my coat should be in the back left of his closet," Sherlock paused for breath. "You absolutely cannot be seen taking these things. John cannot know. Get him out of the house, I don't care how, anything. Just don't make him suspicious. We don't want anyone to worry," He said, and waved the driver forward. Lestrade got in and Sherlock gave him one more bit of information.

"Molly Hooper is taking care of junior for now. Please don't implicate her, I owe her that much. Good luck."

"Hey, Sherlock?" Lestrade said as the door was closing. "Good to have you back."

The Consulting Detective nodded in assent and slammed the door the rest of the way. The last thing the DI saw before the car sped away again was Sherlock stalking off, his coat billowing dramatically.

**A/n: Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed any of my stories. Sorry I haven't updated in forever... life kinda got in the way... and I couldn't think...**

**Hope you enjoyed that and Comment or something if you like it!**

**Also- Just an FYI, I will be changing my penname to Melinda J. Carter soon... so don't get confused...**


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